Third Year Itch
by maryalicesmith
Summary: You'll see where this is going.
1. Chapter 1

Third Year Itch

"Peter's been indicted!" exclaimed Neal suddenly, his chiseled face a study in shock, flushing red in the soft warm light of the tropic morning sun just now breaking over the ocean's undulating horizon. His jabbed a long finger at the iPad2 screen resting sideways on the wooden table in front of him. Swiftly his finger skimmed along the smooth surface of the device as he read, with mounting horror, the front page headline in the New York Times. "You said the FBI had no evidence. You said Peter wouldn't get hurt!" The young con artist's eyes set in his lean handsome face with its' three days worth of beard, uncharacteristically tanned, a bit of sunburn still peeling off his straight perfect nose, glared at his companion in accusation.

"Neal, this isn't my fault!" protested Mozzie with alarm, quickly removing his glasses for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow. He'd forgotten how muggy it could get on this small tropical paradise and not for the first time his thoughts went back to the cool New York autumns he would never see again. He didn't like the tone in his friend's voice and he cast around in his mind for a calming response. Neal's eyes were dark as he tossed the iPad aside on the round bamboo table under the red umbrella staked only feet from the salty sweet-smelling waves washing lazily up on the white sandy shores.

"What have I done?" asked Neal of no one in particular. His tousled head fell into his cupped hands, his thick deep brown hair curtained his closed blue eyes. "My god, what have I done?" he repeated, despair dripping from his voice.

"Neal…this is who we are…," began Mozzie, reaching out to pat his friend on the back of his open white cotton shirt.

"Is it Mozzie?" Challenged Neal, whipping his head up, his face red and damp. "Is this who we are? Peter is going to prison because of us…" his voice cracked, his eyes darted out to the pulsing ocean as he threw his well-defined body back in his beach chair, his hands running quick furrows through his damp brown hair in frustration.

"Peter knew nothing about the artwork," Mozzie said, "the FBI has no evidence…"

"That's not what it says here!" shouted Neal, grabbing the iPad and spinning it across the table toward Mozzie. "The FBI apparently has evidence to the contrary. They wouldn't have indicted Peter if they didn't think they could get a conviction. Oh my god," Neal groaned, trying in vain to shield his mind from the image of Elizabeth, her friendly open smile, visiting Peter in jail. Peter in jail. He waved his hands in front of him, trying to swat the image away unsuccessfully. Without Peter's income, would they be able to save the house? Bankruptcy, eviction, homelessness played out before Neal's eyes like cards quickly dealt on a green felt table. Where would it end? All because Peter and Elizabeth befriended him? Because they'd given him a chance at a better life? Because they believed in him?

"I knew this was a bad idea," Neal said, his voice hard and clipped. He squinted at Mozzie, accusation plainly spoken silently. "This was your idea, your idea…"

"No, Neal!" protested Mozzie, his bald head glistening with sweat. "You wanted this…this is who we are…the last big score…"

"We're thieves and liars!" shouted Neal, jumping up, the chair falling over behind him. "That's who we are! But we're not this…we…I am not going to be responsible for sending Peter to prison. That isn't who I am!" Of that Neal was convinced. His mind raced as he strode quickly back to his beachside hut, equipped with every manner of luxury. What to do? What to do? They hadn't sold all the artwork. They could return most of it. The FBI wouldn't rest until they got every single item back. Who'd bought the Monet ? Could they steal it back? How much DID the FBI know? Could he and Mozzie just ship all the artwork back anonymously? No. The FBI wanted blood. If not Peter's, then…? And what the hell was he doing here anyway? A month in and he was already getting restless. The blue azure ocean surrounding him might as well have been hard iron bars, he was imprisoned just as effectively. He must have been insane to listen to Mozzie. Insane.

Mozzie grabbed the iPad and hurried after his friend. This was not good. Damn the outside world anyway. Could they never be free?

"What are you doing?" cried Mozzie, catching up to Neal and through the door to Neal's accommodations, locking it behind him. "Slow down. Think. Don't do anything impulsive. We can fix this."

"Peter was always good to you," Neal said, swinging around to face his friend. "You owe him, Mozzie. You owe him!" He added an exclamation mark for effect and strode toward the kitchen where he grabbed a wine glass and then after a moment's hesitation, slammed it into the sink where it shattered into a multitude of microscopic pieces.

"Alright, Neal!" Mozzie said, trying to calm Neal by agreeing with him. It was rare to see Neal angry and he didn't know quite what to do with his friend's emotion. Anger scared Mozzie in general and Neal's in particular frightened him still more. "We'll send the art back. They'll have it next week. I'll write a note, explain what happened. Tell them Peter knew nothing about it."

"Yeah, I am sure that will work," snapped Neal with derision. "The FBI will think he SHOULD have known. He'll still be fired no matter how it turns out. No job, no pension. Disgraced. No. We have to turn ourselves in. We have to fix this." Neal began to pace around the spacious living room with its' huge wide windows and billowing blue silk curtains. He should have known. He should have known this would happen.

Mozzie turned away from the pacing Neal and pulled a satellite phone out of his pocket. Punching a few numbers quickly, he held it to his ear, bending over to hide the bulky phone from Neal's view. "Hello? Hello?," he whispered anxiously, straining to hear over the ocean's roar and Neal's mutterings. "Jeff? Jeff?" he hissed. "This plot line was a really bad idea. You'd better fix it quick. Neal's about ready to walk right off the page. Help!" 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It wasn't the hollow echoing silence nor the long dragging hours in solitude nor was it the monotony of the bad food nor the unspeakable boredom nor even how acutely he missed Elizabeth that kept Peter awake at night. It was not the hard military cot which was sadly lacking springs, nor was it the threadbare woolen blanket tossed in after him as the jail cell door clanged shut either. It was the bewildering hurt the FBI agent felt that cut so deep in his psychic – or was it his heart? – that bayed at Peter's mind with a cruelty unmatched by anything he'd ever encountered.

The fact that Peter was locked in jail, actually the special "Isolation Unit" reserved for officers of the law, did not occupy his mind as much as – why? Why did Neal betray him? Neal would have known, when he and Mozzie flew away with billions of dollars of art from the now famed sunken Nazi U-boat, that all eyes would turn to his "handler". Peter fell under suspicion so quickly it was almost as though Neal and Mozzie plotted to make it so. Why, why, why? It was the sea of "whys" that kept the suspended agent awake at night, staring unseeingly at the peeling sea form green paint on the ceiling of his 8 by 8 foot cell.

That he'd misjudged Neal Caffrey ate him like a cancer chasing its' victim to an early grave. His own trusted gut betrayed him as well. He'd been conned. By the very best of them, granted. Everything – the friendship Peter offered Neal, the give-and-take banter, the basic goodness he sensed in the young man – it was all a con, lies, lies, lies. A shimmering mirage in a desert of his own gullibility. Peter berated himself mercilessly, assuring his imprisoned self sternly that he deserved to be in jail if nothing else just for the sheer stupidity he evidenced in befriending – sincerely befriending – a known con artist.

Three years of working together – and Neal felt no friendship for him, no caring, not the least iota of humanity. Peter was only a mark – one of thousands, undoubtedly. Probably Neal conjured the con up long before his escape to find Kate, he plotted and planned the whole thing with meticulous care - a masterpiece of deception and cunning. Worthy of a spot in the Louvre, decided Peter morosely. People generations from now could walk by and admire Neal's artistry, thought Peter, tossing and turning on his uncomfortable narrow bed. Peter imagined the fine marble stand, the golden display case, the cryptic title in front: "Anatomy of a Con", artist Unknown. After all, wasn't the very name 'Neal Caffrey' a lie as well?

Without her sweet loving Peter snuggled next to her in bed, Elizabeth, too, was awake. Although her thoughts ran in a different vein from her husband's that night. Wrinkles she'd never seen before had suddenly appeared on his now sallow face. His body was stooped and aged, he look 20 years older But that wasn't what concerned her most. In the dark of night as the shadows of passing cars flickered past their little house, dancing deceptively cheerily across her bedroom wall, it came to her. Defeat. Since the shock of discovering Neal and Mozzie gone, along with the artwork, Peter had progressed from disbelief, to anger, to deep hurt and finally to numb depression. Peter wouldn't defend himself to his accusers. Interrogated day after day, Peter simply refused to talk except to repeat Diana Berrigan and Clinton Jones were not involved. He, Peter Burke, he alone was responsible. Neal Caffrey was his responsibility from the beginning - and would be to the end. It was in writing (actually it was).

Just as Elizabeth was remaking her bed for the third time that night, the doorbell rang and she jumped a foot at the tinny grating off-key sound that Peter had promised to fix but never did. Oddly, Satchmo hadn't warned her there was anyone on the porch. Who could it be? Slowly she crept down the stairs, cell phone in one hand, Peter's old Smith and Wesson revolver in the other. "Some watchdog," she remonstrated in a whisper, glaring at Satchmo in the street light coming through the front windows. The big dog whined, then circled two times, and laid back down on the throw rug by the couch with a heavy sigh as though to point out dogs too have a right to sleep. Elizabeth slowly pulled back the curtain and peered outside but there was no one there. Great, she thought to herself. Just great. She turned to go back to bed when Satchmo whined again and thumped his tail. "What is it, boy?" she asked sotto-voiced, glancing apprehensively again at the locked front door.

Taking a second look through the lacey curtain, Elizabeth noticed a small object on the Welcome mat. Reluctantly, she turned the lock on the front door and opened it slightly, putting her hand out and around to snatch the object and draw it into the house before quickly slamming the door shut and locking it again. She held the small black boxey item up to the street light streaming through the windows. A phone! Who would leave a phone on her doorstep? Just at that moment the device lit up. She cautiously put it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Elizabeth!" said a familiar voice. "Are you okay?"

"Yeahhh," Elizabeth replied slowly. Was this who she thought it was? It couldn't be…

"I need to see you. Can I come to the backdoor? Please don't call the police."

Elizabeth stood frozen, her mind racing. What in the world…? She should be texting the police right this very second. Yet she wasn't. She glanced at Satchmo again for guidance but he'd gone quickly back to sleep. Was Neal trying to implicate her as well? Send her to prison too? To what end? Throwing caution to the night winds, she answered, "Come. But I won't promise not to call the police." The phone went dead in her ear. Elizabeth paused a moment, then tossed the device on to the kitchen table making a mental note to tell Peter's attorney about this in the morning when there was a soft knock-knock at the backdoor. She glanced at Satchmo, who didn't so much as open an eyelid. Oh well, she thought to herself. What more could Neal do to her? Did she even care at this point? Her husband was gone. She had nothing left to lose.

Pulling the curtained door back, Elizabeth didn't recognize Neal Caffrey standing there in the shadows of their cherished maple tree, now half shed of autumn leaves. His thick hair was longer than she'd ever seen it, and it looked as though he hadn't shaved in a week. He was tanned, if not sunburned, and he was uncharacteristically dressed in rumpled black sweatpants and a grey sweatshirt three sizes too large for his tall thin body. There was no hint of his usual dapper self or usual breezy, confident air.

The two of them stood for a moment in the doorway facing one another, the exhausted wife of a man unjustly imprisoned and the con who was responsible for putting that good man in jail. Neal made no move to come in and Elizabeth made no move to invite him. Neal's eyes were sunken in his face and Elizabeth noticed, under the dim light of the porch, a painful spot of fresh open skin on his nose that seemed to be working its' way toward infection. Neal ran his tongue over his cracked lips nervously and his mouth opened several times but no sound came out as his eyes looked down shamefaced, unable, unwilling to meet Elizabeth's bleary gaze. The moment was so bizarre Elizabeth wondered if she'd actually fallen asleep and was deep in a nightmare. That doubt was dispersed when Neal finally asked politely with his best polished manners, his voice hoarse and low, "may I come in? Please?"

Elizabeth pondered the request in her tired mind. By now Satchmo had wandered into the kitchen, his tail wagging happily at sight of this human who always provided a treat for him from his pocket. Did he have anything now? Sniff, sniff. Sigh, there seemed to be nothing beyond the overwhelming smell of diesel fuel and – ocean? Not one to hold a grudge, the big dog leaned against Neal's leg, begging a pat on the head. Lacking Peter's counsel, Elizabeth was forced to rely on the dog for guidance and stepped back from the door.

Neal stepped quickly through into the darkened kitchen lit only by the Halloween pumpkin nightlight Peter had given her years ago. Flicking the overhead light on, Elizabeth's hand went automatically to the coffee pot on the kitchen counter. She plugged the device into the electric outlet and reached up to an overhead shelf for a can of store-bought ground coffee. The best coffee – hidden in a canister on the kitchen counter – certainly wasn't going to Neal. Busying herself, she ignored the young man, who from the sounds of it had pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down with a tired thump, the chair scrapping back from the table on the new Pergo floor. Neither spoke for the few minutes it took to measure out the coffee, pour the water, and line the coffee maker with a new filter. If this was a dream, it was certainly turning out to be her weirdest one yet, mulled Elizabeth to herself.

Having done all she could do in the coffee making process, Elizabeth turned around and faced Neal. What she expected to see, she didn't know. But of all the things she might have imagined she would see, what she actually saw would probably not have been on her top 10 list. The young man had laid his tousled head down on his folded arms on the table and from the sound of his rhythmic breathing – he had fallen asleep.

Elizabeth stared at Neal for a moment, astonishment on her tired round face, her hair in disarray, coffee aroma percolating up behind her. Satchmo was asleep as well, nestled as close as he could get to Neal's feet, shod strangely in workmen's boots, heavy soled and worn, stained with a dark greasy substance which glistened in the kitchen's light.

You know what? thought Elizabeth to herself. I'm going back to bed and in the morning this will all have been a bad nightmare. Unplugging the coffeemaker, Elizabeth quietly crept out of her kitchen, turning off the light as she went and made her way upstairs. Nightmare or not, she didn't hesitate to lock her bedroom door behind her.

Downstairs, a buzz buzz sounded, waking Neal. He reached into his boot and pulled out a cell phone, studying the bright words on the screen. "Jeff says you have to come back! This isn't in the script!"

"Screw you – I am not betraying Peter," whispered Neal. He turned off the phone and dropped it back inside his boot. Once again he laid his head on his folded arms and quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

3


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Diana Berrigan, FBI agent on unpaid leave pending disciplinary investigation, restless and tense, turned over in her featherbed sending the kaleidoscopic crazy quilt her beloved grandmother made her falling down to the hand-hewn oaken floor while the sparkling white 600 count thread Egyptian cotton top sheet fell back on her damp body clad only in a light chemise with tiny embroidered bluebells and loose aqua pajama bottoms formerly owned by an ex-lover from ages ago. Christy had long since left for her shift at the hospital and what-was-that-annoying-racket anyway? Unable to tolerate the disruption one moment longer, Diana leapt out of the bed, surrounded by the lacey coral-colored curtains (Christy's choice), snatched up her cell phone from the antique nightstand, and stalked angrily to one of the two partially open windows facing their inside enclosed garden just in time to feel the sting of gravel hitting her face.

"I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry!" called a horrified voice from the enclosed wooded garden below. Quickly shaking the dust and dirt from her eyes while spitting out the sand, she peered down in astonishment. If Prince William himself had been blowing kisses to her from below she wouldn't have been more disbelieving of what her eyes were telling her. "Caffrey?"

"Let me in! Please," called Neal, looking up to the second floor window while the remainder of the gravel slipped out of his fingers behind his back. His handsome face, turned upward to her, was white with exhaustion although a tan overlay was evident and his thick brown hair hung past his shoulder blades as he craned his neck. He was nearly unrecognizable in sweatpants and shirt and on his feet Diana noted heavy stained work boots. Caffrey working? What a joke, she thought to herself.

"Go to the door," Diana ordered, slamming the window shut as she turned to grab her robe. Quickly she washed her face in the small bathroom, then reached blindly for a towel that wasn't there. Christy, what did you do with the hand towel, she muttered to herself in exasperation. She would've greeted Neal with drawn gun and badge but those had been taken away from her since her suspension and never did she miss them more. Emerging from the bathroom, Diana scanned the room for a usable weapon and then reluctantly abandoned the idea. In the years she'd known the con artist he was never violent. He should be the one to worry, she thought to herself, angrily. Neal Caffrey, the root of all her misery, here at her front door.

Skipping down the stairs in bare feet, Diana skidded to a stop unceremoniously as one foot hit the woven emerald green throw rug Christy insisted on placing in front of the entrance door and she found herself crashing into the heavily paneled wood of the wall with a resounding thud. I am going to break a leg on that thing! She gripped to herself for the nth time. What was it with Christy and decorating? Pausing for a moment to catch her breath, Diana turned the handle to find Neal Caffrey truly standing there – the last person she expected to see, outside of a secure, very secure prison, anyway.

"Sorry about the gravel, I was trying to get your attention," Neal explained nervously, twisting a worn blue Yankees baseball cap in his hands. Studying him closer, Diana marveled at his changed appearance and his chameleon gift. If she'd been standing behind him in a supermarket checkout line, she wouldn't have looked twice. Stepping back Diana motioned Neal inside and he clomped over her threshold noisily, glancing around with obvious apprehension, his face taunt and his blue eyes wary but resigned. It was evident he'd made a choice and was determined to stick with it, consequences be damned.

"Sit down," ordered Diana abruptly. She didn't like him towering above her. Neal looked around and went to sit down on one of the hard slatted chairs by the kitchen table, turning the chair away from the table to face her. The suspended FBI agent folded her arms over her chest tightly and glared at him, their eyes locking. She could see he was pained and her anger subsided slightly – but not by much. She'd lost a month's pay because of him and Peter was in jail! How dare he show his face. Yet how amazingly convenient. As her mind tried to figure out a way to subdue him, Neal spoke.

"It wasn't my fault!"

"Yeah?" Diana scoffed. "Then whose?" There was duct tape somewhere but she doubted Neal would wait patiently while she looked for where Christy might have left it. Sweet Christy who couldn't put anything back where she found it to save her life. How did she manage surgery, anyhow?

"Jeff's!" exclaimed Neal emphatically. "it was all Jeff's idea!"

"Don't blame this on Jeff!" warned Diana, horrified. "This is all you – Neal Caffrey, con artist extraordinaire.

"Mozzie said no one would get hurt," Neal continued, his face darkening. "I had no idea the FBI would think Peter had anything to do with it."

"And me!" snapped Diana, her voice rising with irritation. "And me! I've been suspended. No pay for over a month, you moron! Jones as well! They think we helped you!"

"That's ridiculous, "Neal stating the obvious. "You would have shot me first."

"So I told them!" agreed Diana, nodding her head as she finally sat down across from him at the kitchen table. "Peter told the FBI as well. He's taken all the blame on himself. He is so hurt, Neal. How could you do this to him? He tried so hard to help you."

At Diana's words, Neal dropped his head in his hands, covering his face. For a fleeting moment Diana felt a smidgen of pity rise up from her hardened heart but sternly tapped it down. The man was nothing but a con artist and would never be anything but a con artist. He'd sell his own mother down the…in fact, he probably already did! No. He was a heartless bastard who deserved no consideration from decent folk. But what the hell was he doing here?

Raising his head, Caffrey pushed his long, uncombed hair out of his eyes with his right hand. "How can we fix this?" he asked, looking at her without flinching.

"We!" exclaimed Diana with a half-laugh. "We! I had nothing to do with this. You, on the other hand…"

"I told you," repeated Neal patiently, "it was Jeff's idea. Third season itch. He said he wanted to 'reset' our relationship."

"What gibberish are you talking?" demanded Diana with irritation. Her brown eyes strayed to the fine blue satin curtain drawcord running across the front window behind Neal. Christy would have her head for ruining the curtains they'd brought over from their honeymoon in Paris. Darn. She dared not risk it - even to tie Neal up like a Thanksgiving turkey, despite the immense pleasure the thought gave her.

"Forget it," sighed Neal. It was obvious Jeff wasn't going to fix this mess. Where was his mind, anyway? Probably on his new pilot! "What will it take for the FBI to let Peter go and give him back his job?"

"Surrender yourself and your little accomplice AND return all the artwork you stole from the Nazi U-boat. That would be a start."

"Surrendering myself - I can do," said Neal, his voice husky, barely above a whisper. "Mozzie…I don't know where he is. I honestly don't." Neal glanced over at Diana's skeptical face, not surprised she didn't believe him for an instant. "And I don't know where the art is. Mozzie handled everything."

"Then why did you come back?" demanded Diana, impatiently. "What good are you by yourself? The FBI wants the artwork back! If they don't get the artwork then it's both you and Peter in prison."

"Me?" asked Neal, his eyebrows rising.

"Did you think I was going to let you waltz out of here?"

"You're suspended," Neal reminded Diana gently. "No gun. No badge. You can't arrest me."

"I sure as hell can call 911," Diana reminded him, shaking her cell phone in front of his resigned blue eyes.

"But you won't," observed Neal, quietly – careful not to challenge her.

"Why is that?"

"Unless I am free, I can't find the artwork.

"How do I know you don't know where it is?"

"If I knew where it was, I wouldn't have come to you. I'd have gone to the FBI directly," said Neal simply.

Diana rubbed her forehead. Her mind was spinning as she tried to follow Neal's con-like logic.

"Then WHY are you here?" she demanded. Why wasn't she asleep in bed or better yet left free to mope about her suspension in peace, blissfully Caffrey-less?

"Elizabeth sent me. She wants to see you."

"Elizabeth! I am not allowed to have contact with either Peter or Elizabeth – she knows that!" Diana had missed talking to Peter's wife; they had grown close over the years she'd been working with Peter.

"You're going to have to bend the rules if you want Peter out of jail," prodded Neal gently.

"That's right up your alley, isn't it?" snapped Diana peevishly. "Bending rules."

"I've got to get back," Neal suddenly announced, rising from the chair. Diana noticed his boots had left dark scuffed marks on the painted Italian tile flooring and made a quick mental note to clean them up before Christy got home. Neal pulled a small nondescript phone out of his pocket and tossed it to her. "Use this to call Elizabeth. The number is taped on the phone. Please."

"Why didn't you stop him from leaving? A karate chop or something?" demanded Jones an hour later when Diana told him about Neal's visit. "You let him walk out the door!"

"He made sense – sorta," Diana replied, embarrassed but not contrite. "We need help, Clinton, if Peter is going to be exonerated. Who better to free him than the man who put him there?"

"You're trusting Neal now?"

"No!" replied Diana in protest.

"Have you called Elizabeth?"

"No!" said Diana again.

Jones looked at Diana skeptically. "You and the Burkes have always been close."

"We haven't!"

"It's Fowler all over again. You and Peter with your secrets and I am out of the loop."

"It isn't!" protested Diana. "I asked you over here…"

"Whatever," replied Jones, unconvinced. He was going to be left blowing in the wind, his name wasn't even on the opening credits for goodness sakes!

"G'night, Diana," Jones continued, getting up from his chair as he heard Christy put her key in the door. "Just keep me in the loop this time – OK?"

As Christy pushed the heavy door open, black leather doctor bag and huge bulky purse in hand, she passed Jones and rose on tip toe to peck him quickly on his cheek, one hand resting briefly on his arm. He returned the kiss with a shy smile and closed the door behind him as Christy gave her partner a puzzled look.

"What did I miss?" she asked, tossing her things in a heap on the sofa and pulling a red barrette out of her long hair, letting it cascade down her back. "You seem – different. What's changed?"

Diana smiled slightly, "Nothing, honey," she said. She didn't want Christy involved in this mess – no way, no how.

Across town, Neal Caffrey's thumbs flew over the keyboard of his burner phone as he hurriedly texted. Elizabeth, standing next to him and leaning lightly on his shoulder, peered down at the tiny screen, her blue eyes widening in astonishment.

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	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Visiting Day was tough. There was no denying it. Peter looked forward with great anticipation to Elizabeth's weekly arrivals even though it grieved him beyond words for her to visit him in this cheerless place and to see him behind bars, attired in a loose orange jumpsuit yet. He'd been tempted to beg Elizabeth not to come but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Peter longed for the sight of her, the smell of her, to hear his wife's voice again. It was all he'd thought about for days – when he wasn't obsessing about Neal Caffrey and the missing Nazi art.

Today, however, the fact that all Elizabeth could talk about was Satchmo was at first amusing, then perplexing, and now it'd become downright irritating. Enough with the dog already! Peter heard about where Satchmo slept, what Satchmo had for breakfast, and oh yes, how happy Satchmo was to be going on thrice daily walks again, his old dog walker newly returned from vacation. Peter's eyes were starting to glaze over and he would have missed Elizabeth's very direct look had something she said not clicked in his memory. Dog walker. Satchmo never had a dog walker. The only people who walked Satchmo were he and Elizabeth – and Neal Caffrey, whom Satchmo took an instant liking to from Day One. In fact, Satchmo's enthusiastic reaction to Neal was initially the reason Peter felt Elizabeth was safe with the con artist.

Surely Elizabeth couldn't mean…Neal? Was Elizabeth trying to convey a message to him in code? Peter jerked himself out of his reverie to gaze at Elizabeth intently through the smudged Plexiglas window covered with fingerprints and he didn't want to know what else. They both knew they were being video taped. Quickly Peter tried to form an appropriate response which would tell Elizabeth he'd gotten her message but he didn't want to tip off the guards or whoever it was who watched the tapes of their visits afterwards. Elizabeth wouldn't be speaking in code if it wasn't vitally important.

"Er…did you remember to give Satchmo his monthly dose of Advantage to keep the fleas away?" asked Peter haltingly. He knew it was a clumsy question but he hadn't had time to prepare. It never occurred to him in his wildest imaginings that Neal Caffrey would RETURN. Elizabeth glared at him, startled; exasperation in her blue eyes. Fleas? Fleas? How in the world was she supposed to respond to that? Pausing for a moment, she then calmly assured Peter that yes, Satchmo was getting his Advantage and not to worry - he was entirely flealess. The two of them sat in silence for a moment staring at each other numbly, trying in vain to communicate telepathically. Then Elizabeth brightened.

"Satchmo has learned a new trick!" she announced with pride. "He runs to the phone when it rings!" Peter's brow furrowed as he tried to interpret this hint. Neal's learned a new trick? Lord, let's hope not. He's got more than enough tricks up his sleeve. The very thought sent the perspiration glistening on Peter's forehead. Something about a phone. He's communicating with someone by phone? From her reaction, Elizabeth was interpreting this as a positive thing.

"Good," commented Peter seriously. "He's a smart dog." Well, no doubt about that. Elizabeth smiled, pleased her encrypted message was received loud and clear.

"And how are you, dear?" suddenly asked Elizabeth, obvious of the opinion it might look suspicious if she didn't show some interest in her incarcerated husband. She listened as Peter shared his opinion of the jail cuisine – no stars! The amenities – no stars there either! Customer service – the worse! Just wait until he posted a review on Yelp. In a few moments Peter had Elizabeth laughing in spite of herself. Peter knew that if push came to shove Elizabeth would be fine. She was very resourceful. He longed to be the one to take care of her and the fact that he couldn't tore at his heart. He pulled himself away from that precipice. He didn't have the luxury. He must concentrate on fixing this mess. Neal had returned. But why? And where was the art? His heart leapt with the thought he might be freed soon. If only Neal would come forward…

Later, lying on his hard narrow bunk in his bare cell, Peter's mind raced as he tried not to get his hopes up. The weight that burdened his heart for this past month lifted a little at the news Neal made contact with Elizabeth. Neal was making phone calls. This was making Elizabeth happy. So it made Peter happy. But what was Neal up to? Was he going to surrender the art? It would mean he'd be the one in prison, probably for the rest of his life. Peter couldn't see Neal sacrificing his life for him. Walking the dog, yes. Going to prison, no. Peter felt so helpless, unable to do anything but lie on his bunk and obsess about all these events which swirled around in his head. His career was probably over and his pension gone. What would become of he and Elizabeth? What else could he do to earn their living? He'd been over it so many times in his mind even he was bored rehashing it. Instead he brought to mind Elizabeth's sweet face, her kind smile, her deep blue eyes, and gradually noting her every virtue, he fell into a restless sleep.

Miles away, all the curtains were drawn at the Burke household. The doors and windows were double-locked, all the lights were turned off and Satchmo stood guard duty. Taking his responsibilities quite seriously, the lovable blond lab sat in the middle of the living room, his big ears tuned for any sound downstairs or up as he watched over the little group of humans huddled around the Burke's kitchen table by, literally, flickering candle light.

There was Neal Caffrey who'd mercifully changed into jeans and t-shirt, his long thick hair pulled uncharacteristically back into a pony tail tied with a red rubber band which turned out to be quite a good look for him or so marveled Diana Berrigan who sat next to him, hunched over the table peering at the small phone in his hands. The suspended FBI agent was dressed totally in black due to the necessity of sneaking into the small house unobserved. Between two fingers she held part of a fried chicken drumstick from the dinner which Elizabeth made for the clandestine occasion and her lips glistened in the shadowy light of the yellowy beeswax taper candles on the table in their shiny brass gothic holders.

"That's your fourth piece of chicken," marveled Neal, glancing over at Diana in wonder.

"So?" Diana said, giving Neal a jab. "Pay attention to what you're doing. Have you got him yet?"

"No," signed Neal, peering intently at the burner phone. The connection was good, he was sure of it. His pulse was quick and his chest felt tight with dread. Why doesn't Mozzie answer? It wasn't like him. Angry or not. He would answer.

"Maybe he's keeping it all for himself," offered Elizabeth, on the other side of the table with fork in hand as she coaxed green baby peas onto her spoon.

"He wouldn't," said Neal, shaking his head.

"You would," observed Diana bluntly, expertly ripping off a piece of chicken with her teeth.

"I would. Mozzie wouldn't," agreed Neal, shaking his head. He looked at his watch again to check the time. This was their designated time they'd agreed on.

"Try calling, not texting," suggested Diana, tossing the chicken bone back on her plate. She carefully wiped her fingers on yet another white paper towel, then crushed it up in her hands and tossed it onto the small pile of soiled paper towels by her fine Danish china plate with the blue painted windmill in a field of blue tulips.

"Alright," sighed Neal. That wasn't the plan. Text, said Mozzie. Stick to Texting. It's safer and harder to trace – no voice recognition software to worry about. Neal dialed the burner phone quickly, then put it to his ear. One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

"Hello?" drawled a man's deeply accented voice, southern…Texas? West Texas, maybe. Neal blanched and quickly hung up. His hands were shaking as hurled the burner phone hard into the fireplace where it broke into a multitude of sharp pieces.

"Hey!" exclaimed Elizabeth, startled as she stared at Neal in outrage and then over at her damaged fireplace grate.

"That wasn't Mozzie," said Neal, his voice low and hoarse. "Someone has his phone. I had to make sure the connection couldn't be traced back here." His blue eyes looked searchingly from Diana to Elizabeth and back again in near panic. Didn't they understand what just happened? He folded his trembling hands tightly together on the table, trying unsuccessfully to steady them. His lifeline with Mozzie was cut. Someone had his phone. Did they have Mozzie too? Without Mozzie, all was lost. Peter might very well spend the rest of his life in jail. Himself as well. Although the room was dark and cold, Neal could feel perspiration break out on his forehead and his hands felt sticky and damp. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…the mantra kept running through his mind as he fought down his panic.

"Don't even think about it," warned Diana, her voice barely above a whisper as she rose from her chair slowly, in her hand a small black pistol, a "lady's gun".

"What's going on?" asked Elizabeth, startled. It wasn't often she'd felt fear in her life but she recognized the signs now. She leapt up from her chair, alerting Satchmo who trotted over, a low threatening growl coming from his throat, his eyes scanning the three humans, picking up a myriad of unusual and conflicting sensations, few of which he understood.

"Neal's going to run," explained Diana to Elizabeth. "If Mozzie's gone, there is no way to get the artwork back. Peter could be in jail for years and Neal wants no part of that." By now Diana had moved back several feet as she aimed the small gun at Neal; her actions prompting a rise in the really scary growl from Satchmo who was baring his sharp teeth slightly and panting in quick bursts of adrenalin. The muscles under his golden coat were tensed hard and rippled in the low light of the room.

"Is that true, Neal?" asked Elizabeth, disbelievingly. She stepped back as well. She'd never seen a gun drawn in real life and Diana was frightening her as was Satchmo. She didn't like the sound of that low growl one bit.

Neal didn't answer. He sat still at the table, hands tightly folded to the point his fingers hurt, his eyes cast down, his mind racing. This might well be his last moment of freedom if he didn't act immediately. He had no doubt Diana would shoot him if it came down to it. He was no match against even the small gun she held. But Satchmo…the dog was his ace in the hole. To stay? To run? Reluctantly coming to a decision that he knew would change his life forever, Neal twisted in his chair and looked Satchmo in the eyes as he opened his mouth to command…

On the other side of the world, a tall still well-built bare chested man probably in his 50's, in blue boxer swim trunks with a white Stetson on his balding head, jumped as someone came up behind him and snatched the weird plain-looking phone he'd just found out of his hand.

"Is that yours?" asked the man, drawling his words out to a ridiculous length. "Sorry, partner. I found it on the table here."

"Yes, it's mine!" exclaimed Mozzie, horrified he'd left the burner phone behind when picking up all his beach paraphernalia. "Thank you, sir," he said, slightly ashamed of his manners. He must look like an idiot to this kindly tourist on vacation. He held out his hand, trying to make amends. Rule #1 – Blend in.

"No, problem," the man said, with a friendly smile, shaking Mozzie's hand. Streaked white zinc oxide covered most of his round pleasant face under the wide brimmed hat while his deep-set brown eyes peered out from behind gray sunglasses not quite dark enough for this tropic climate. "Been here long?" he asked Mozzie easily, casting an appraising look over the nearly empty beach and the blue pounding surf beyond. "Heaven on earth, ain't it?"

"Been here awhile," Mozzie answered, honestly for once. "And you?" he countered politely, trying to make the expected small talk. Blend in. Blend in.

"Got here last night," the man said. "Born and raised in Odessa, Texas. Raised my kids there too. They're grown. Me and the wife want to see the world now. Thought we'd start with…"

"That's great!" interrupted Mozzie, trying to stifle the impatience welling up within him. "Listen, I have to go. Hope to see you again," he said, actually finding himself meaning his words. He suddenly realized how lonely he was without Neal.

As Mozzie turned away, he quickly dialed Neal's number, glancing at his watch. That's odd. Nothing. Not so much as a busy signal. Dead air. Neal, what have you done? He asked out loud as he fought down a feeling of nausea. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones. Neal, what have you done? He asked again, shaking the burner phone in desperation but all he heard was silence.

4


End file.
